


Slip and Fall

by theskywasblue



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Feels, Introspection, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 20:19:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4849139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas has been making him crazy for a long time</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slip and Fall

**Author's Note:**

> kansouame encouraged me to write something based on [this gifset](http://buttherewasnogod.tumblr.com/post/129590397062/louisisana-i-need-this) and it turned out to be a lot more serious and feels-y than I thought but oh well. Just assume this takes place at sometime post season 10, after TPTB are done putting Cas through whatever horrible things they have planned for him.

It’s quiet once Sam leaves. That stupid, infuriating kind of quiet that makes Dean’s skin itch, makes him want to walk in circles, throw things, _scream_ just to fill up the silence. He’s never been good with being still, is the problem.

The worst part of the whole thing is that he can, pretty much literally, _feel_ Cas, on the other side of the bunker, in the library, probably waiting for him, and Dean has no idea what to even do about that. It’s making him crazy.

Then again, Cas has been making him crazy since long before they - before they - they…

_Two handfuls of Cas’ ratty shirt, the white strip of a bandage along his jaw. “I thought you were…” “But I’m not…” breathing too hard, spine against the door frame, the combined smells of soap, aftershave, and beer. Dean looks away first, at Cas’ half-opened mouth, white teeth, chapped lips, gashed at one corner, red and pink. “You can’t,” Dean says. “You can’t, you can’t -” but then they’re kissing, and it all seems so easy, though they both jump when Dean’s belt buckle knocks against the floor, as loud as a gunshot in the empty hallway. Laughter, as Cas’ fingers tangle in his hair..._

Dishes clatter in the sink, and Dean leaps into the air like a startled cat; but it’s only the stack tipping over, piled too high. He should wash them, dry them, put them away. He should get something started for supper, or clean and organize the gear they used on their last hunt.

He doesn’t _want_ to do any of that, though.

Instead, he abandons the rag he’s using to wash down the kitchen counters, and heads for the library, telling himself that at some point he’ll break off, make a detour, do anything _but_ what he knows he’s going to do; of course he doesn’t. It’s always like that, where Cas is concerned; the things Dean knows never matter, and he’s tried to fight against it, for _years_. He might as well be fighting gravity.

Cas sits up against one of the shelves, surrounded by a pile of books. He’s determined, apparently, to read every book the Men of Letters ever collected, including the ones written in obscure languages that Dean isn’t even sure are real. (According to Sam, the Men of Letters used upwards of a dozen different ciphers to protect their most valuable sources of information. He has whole cork boards dedicated to decrypting at least three of them, which he won’t let Dean or Cas anywhere near.) He’s wearing a pair of jeans left behind in the laundry pile the last time he was human, and one of Dean’s favourite shirts, so worn it almost doesn’t exist anymore.

If Dean thinks too hard about it, it’s sort of a weird metaphor for Cas himself, plucked apart and put together so many times, sliding away from _angel_ into something that can only be properly defined as purely _Cas_ , with Dean’s fingerprints all over him, making a mess of everything.

Dean perches himself on one of the less dangerously unstable-looking stacks of books Cas is slowly building around himself, nudges Cas’ leg with his toes. “Hey.”

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, without looking up, turning a page.

“What’cha reading?”

Another page turns. Cas absorbs everything, like a sponge, even now. “A detailed history of Wendigo attacks that occurred in Northern Canada in the early 1900’s.”

“That must be really…” Dean can’t think of the word he wants, so he just runs his hand through his hair, and lets everything trail off.

“It’s fascinating,” Cas supplies. “It seems there’s a fine line between a true Wendigo manifestation and something more akin to a sort of psychosis, which overtakes an otherwise normal, healthy human being; but during which no physical transformation takes place.”

Dean nods slowly, still struggling not to fidget. “Well, don’t let me interrupt or anything.”

“You’re not interrupting.” Cas curls his hand around Dean’s ankle, glides his thumb over the rise of bone, like anything about that is alright; as if they can just _touch_. Dean tries to ignore the way the sensation trails all the way up the inside of his leg.

“Listen, Cas…”

“I always do,” Cas says, turning another page.

Dean laughs, “That’s bullshit.”

“Well, when it’s important, I do.”

“Still bullshit,” Dean says, but he can’t keep himself from smiling. “I just - I don’t fucking know, okay? I haven’t got this figured out yet. But what happened - what’s happening…”

_The backs of Dean’s thighs hit the edge of the kitchen counter, a beer bottle tips over, rolls. Dean barely manages to catch it, shove it aside as Cas presses in, relentless. They stretch out on the couch together, legs tangled, Cas’ breath hot on the side of Dean’s neck. Cas leaves the bathroom door unlocked; Dean’s hand shakes when he pulls the shower curtain back…_

“You enjoy it,” Cas says.

Dean almost chokes, scrubs a hand across his face. “Understatement of the century, Cas.”

“It is a young century,” Cas retorts.

Dean huffs. “Ha ha, funny guy.” He lets himself reach over and put his fingers into Cas’ messy hair, rub against his scalp. Cas sits up a little straighter, leaning into it, shifts the book around in his lap.

Suddenly, he snaps the book closed. “I think we should -”

Dean is agreeing before he even finishes, standing up so fast the stack of books tips over, cascades across the floor, scattering loose pages. When Dean bends to pick them up, Cas catches him by his belt.

“Leave them,” he says, pulling. He looks like he wants to swallow Dean whole.

“Yeah - yeah sure.”

Dean’s room is the closest. They close the door, don’t bother with the lights. Dean goes for Cas’ shirt so fast he tears a seam in the armpit. “Sorry.”

“It’s your shirt,” Cas says, his mouth already on Dean’s neck, his jaw, the tender space under his ear.

“I’ll give you another one.”

“I know.”

The bed protests their combined weight. Cas pushes him down, catches his hands, works their fingers together. Cas’ jeans are open, but all Dean managed to get to is his belt.

“I need my hands,” he tries, canting one knee up, dizzy with the way Cas fits between his thighs.

“I think I can handle a zipper,” Cas counters, but it’s a lot harder in practice than it is in theory to get both their pants and underwear off when they’re already horizontal. 

It might also help if Dean could stop kissing him, but he can’t. He gets Cas’ lower lip between his teeth, tugs until Cas makes a helpless noise and practically throws himself off the bed, shoving his jeans off like they’re on fire, while Dean squirms out of his own, gracelessly, and kicks them over the side of the bed.

For a moment, Cas just stands there, next to the bed, one hand curled loosely around his cock, mouth slack, swollen and red from Dean’s teeth, breathing fast. He looks lost like Dean feels.

Dean sits up, grabs his wrist, and pulls him forward. “C’mere.”

This time, he kisses more slowly, lets himself really feel it, lets _Cas_ really feel it; one hand on the back of his neck, fingers stroking through the short hair until Cas sighs into Dean’s mouth, slides his hips forward so their cocks rub together, trapped between their bodies.

It should take more than that, but it doesn’t, really. Dean presses his face into Cas’ shoulder and doesn’t stop saying his name until just before he comes, and he forgets how to breathe for a second.

The bed is too small for both of them, but they make it work, afterwards. The bunker is still quiet, but Dean feels settled, with Cas’ leg hooked over his underneath the sheets. He lets himself drift, almost asleep.

He doesn’t hear Sam calling his name until the bedroom door is already open.

“Where the hell are you - oh my god.” There’s a moment where Sam freezes like a startled deer, before he practically falls backwards into the hallway in his rush to close the door. “Oh. My. _God_. I’m so - oh my god you’re - can’t you lock the door?!”

“Oops,” Dean says. He should be angry, or at least embarrassed; but, he only feels weightless, and weirdly pleased, as Cas turns his face against the pillow and laughs.

-End-


End file.
